What is the collective noun for a group of action heroes? A grenade of action heroes? A steroid of action heroes? At the premiere of the third part in Sylvester Stallone’s Expendable series last week (he writes, Patrick Hughes directs), a veritable knucklehead of them descended on Leicester Square — distinct from the security personnel only in their lack of earpieces.

There was our very own Jason Statham, all ringside charm as he signed autographs. There was Wesley Snipes, prowling around like a superannuated circus lion. And at the centre of them all was Stallone himself, the alpha of the pack, his face so vandalised that it now resembles a candle left to melt in the corner of a restaurant in Little Italy. In this banquet of processed beef, only Antonio Banderas provided any variety, functioning as a sort of habanero dip.

Of course, the superabundance of muscle is the USP of the Expendables series, which centres on a veteran group of mercenaries employed to do the CIA’s dirty work. Bruce Willis is missing from this outing (apparently, he wanted too much dosh) but Arnold Schwarzenegger is hanging in there, while we also have Harrison Ford, Mel Gibson, plus a whole new generation of die-cast Expendables action figures to play with. The essential format is the same: spray a lot of Eighties-era weaponry around photogenic trouble spots, reflect on what a drag it is getting old and make out like what America needs right now is more guns, more explosives and more muscle.

We open with semi-coherent Stallone, likeable Statham, grumpadump Dolph Lundgren and the entirely superfluous Randy Couture — who looks like a fat Statham — performing a daring rescue of an old colleague (an enjoyably volatile Snipes) from a prison train in the former Soviet Union. “What did they put you away for?” asks Statham. “Tax evasion,” deadpans Snipes, Wildean wit clearly intact. As they reacquaint themselves, the machismo threatens to weigh down the plane. Snipes shaves, with no foam or anything, using an enormous bowie knife — so tough! Apparently the set was a scream.

When the Expendables make a bit of a boo-boo trying to take out the Expendable-gone-evil Stonebanks (Gibson) in Mogadishu, Ford’s CIA fixer tells Stallone to get his act together. With heavy heart he retires his old buddies and sets about assembling a new team with the help of Kelsey Grammer. A trawl of New York strip clubs and Mexican boxing rings turns up female mixed martial artist Ronda Rousey; Stallone’s heir apparent Kellan Lutz; and a few others, all much better acquainted with 21st-century warfare. (“What are we supposed to do, blast our way out? Great plan — if it’s 1985!”) When they run into trouble, however, the stage is set for the old dudes to fly from the US to Central Asia in 15 minutes and remind them of the virtues of machine guns, camaraderie and terrible one-liners. “What’s with the toy ... boy?” shimmers Lundgren when he notices one of the new Expendables has a computer.

These are films which you can only fully appreciate in the context of other films, specifically the Reagan-era action movies in which these loveable idiots made their names. They are stars, not actors, and the pleasure lies in watching them conform to their own starriness. You need to know Predator to know why it’s funny when Arnie says: “Let’s get to the chopper” or Star Wars to appreciate Ford going all Han Solo in aforementioned aircraft. I would guess at least 25 per cent of the lines have some relevance outside the film. (Statham: “How much do we get paid for this?” Stallone: “Not enough.”) It’s as “meta” as anything by Charlie Kaufmann.

It could — it should — be appalling. Actually, as pure entertainment it’s a joy, and will be adored amid Heineken bottles and Papa John’s boxes for years to come. It works for two reasons. One, there are enough high-class performers that the law of averages dictates that there will be some good performances. Banderas, who apparently took one look at the script and decided to improvise instead, turns his wiry Spaniard into a needy ball of nerves and shows the whole thing up for the vile advert for violence that it really is. (“All I want to do is kill people and I do that... very well!”) Gibson uses his toxicity to skilful effect as Stonebanks — you can tell he’s evil as he hangs around in art galleries, never a good look. Still, it’s Ford, all watery emotion and snide impatience, who wins the battle as the most compelling screen presence.

But it mainly works because Stallone — despite his melted face and his beefcake heart — is a true storyteller. At any given moment, you know who’s good, who’s bad, what is exploding and what the ultimate outcome will be. It shouldn’t be such a rare quality in Hollywood these days but it is — and it goes a long way to explaining quite why these films are so very profitable.